


For Safekeeping

by ScienceofObsession



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Magical Realism, Molly is quietly awesome, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 00:40:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScienceofObsession/pseuds/ScienceofObsession
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill - Molly performs a favor for Sherlock, after the Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Safekeeping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cellar_Door](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cellar_Door/gifts).



> For Cellardoorpodfic, who gave me this prompt: The first 24 hours after the Fall. Molly's POV. Bonus points for magical realism in any way/shape/form.

 

She removes his heart with the care borne of long-standing regard and the sombre gravity of the lovelorn.  It’s already broken, several shattered pieces migrated to the corners of his chest, the bright leakage of sorrow tinging his tissue. She’s seen these colors before, but never so vibrant, never so alive. She knows it’s because it’s him.  It’s horrifyingly beautiful, a vision she hopes she never sees again.

****

She works quickly, knowing they have little time. Mere hours to perform the magic of days. His faith in her bears much of the strain she feels at the condensation.  

****

Shivering at the unfamiliar sensation of a warm body on her table, she steadies herself with a hand on his bare hip. Heated and sharp, like him. She flexes her fingers, focuses, purses her lips. His eyelids quake softly as he sleeps under her spell. He still has blood on his temple.

****

_____

****

When he first came to her, she’d flinched away from the fire in his eyes. If there was a violent flush that swept up from her toes, she ignored it, tried to return his gaze in kind. A beacon, she wanted to be a beacon for him. He needed this.

****

“Molly,” he’d rasped, already choking on the sacrifice. “I know you can do this. Don’t deny me. Don’t deny John. Please.”

****

It was the please, really, that did it. A word she was sure had never passed his lips in earnest, here just for her, spoken just for John. A realization of that bond gave her heart a flutter, and she swallowed it down painfully. This was not something she’d ever interfere with, no, but she would still yearn.

****

She didn’t have to explain it to him, or ask how he knew what she was. She had just settled into the familiar routine of it all, began laying out her tools and spells. His relieved sigh sounded like a premonition nesting in her ears.

 

_____

****

The hardest part of it all was keeping the secret. She’d suspected it would be so, but still was not prepared for the rush of despair that clogged her morgue. Her Palace of the Dead, now hiding the living. Lestrade, who trusted her, looking down on her lie as it was spread on the slab. She spoke little, relying on the trembling lip of not-so-false sorrow to keep her truths safe.

_____

****

She sends him on his way, carrying delicate stitches and a new identity, all the cash she has in her flat and tatty Oxfam clothes that fit him poorly. They disguise the slant of his back, the form of his purpose, and she knows the world will swallow him up. She holds his heart close, beating softly in its pink jar, broken pieces sewn together with tenderness and earthy magic. His wordless plea is answered with the equal silence of her nod, no less promising for its soundlessness. She will keep him safe, the core of him right here with her, and she will be waiting when he returns.

****

She doesn’t tell him that the pattern of stitches on his chest will ward off malice - she figures there will be more than enough of it following him to keep his attention.

****

She watches him slip away into the fog, footsteps echoing in the beating of her own full heart.

****

_____

****

Two years and 213 days later, she receives a single text from an unknown number. She lets out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding, gathers up the pink jar, and takes a long walk to 221b Baker Street.

****

A stoic and aged John Watson answers the door, and she places the jar delicately in his hands. The question in his eyes tells her all she ever needs to know about hope.

 


End file.
